Doors
by clair beaubien
Summary: Sam has a chat with someone who shows him Dean still loves him. Tag to Metamorphosis.


This is a tag scene to Metamorphosis. It has no connection to my story "Idiot" except for its timing.

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"Hey God, it's me. You know, the _freak_."

Sam settled himself at the backside of a headstone in the small graveyard next to the church. He had a clear view of the night sky through the shedding trees overhead and he directed his anger there.

"I don't get it. I don't. I thought what I was doing - do you _want _me to kill people? Do you want me to - do you want me to not - _what the hell do you want from me?"_

Against his will, tears filled Sam's eyes and rolled down his face.

"Dean doesn't even believe in you and he gets - he gets - an - an - _angel_. I've been praying to you for - okay, I mean it's only been a couple of years really but still - still - I pray to you. I believe in you. I trust - I try to trust - I - God, I hate crying."

He scrubbed at his face with his sleeve, hard enough to hurt.

"Why'd you make me a freak? Why'd you let - I was six months old. _It wasn't my choice_. Was it? I mean did I decide in utero to become some hell spawn demon freak? Did I? I mean if I did, tell me. I'll shut up. I'll leave you alone. But if I didn't - I didn't, did I? Please tell me I didn't."

A warm wind wrapped around Sam, blowing his hair and drying the tears on his face as more fell.

"Dean -." Sam's voice cracked saying his name. "Dean can't even stand to look at me. No, okay, I know that's not true. But when he does look at me, he sees a freak. He thinks I'm a freak. I - he - Dean - why? _Why_? I'm doing the best I can. I'm helping - I thought I was helping -is it because I'm not using the written text for exorcisms? Would it help if I paid royalties? What?"

He tried to laugh, but maybe God wouldn't find that funny.

"No, I know. It's because it's a _power_. That's why it's wrong to use it. Or at least I think that must be why. But I never - I have _never_ used this - this - _power_ - to hurt anybody. I never _never_ tried to develop any other powers, the way the other children did. You think I wouldn't want to be able to make people look the other way when we pick a lock or use a bogus credit card? You think super strength or telekinesis wouldn't come in handy when we're digging a grave? You know - you of _all _people know - I've had plenty of chances to develop any power I could, but I didn't. I _didn't, _and you know what? I'm getting sick of getting _nothing _back from you."

A sudden realization hit Sam, so hard it drove him to his feet.

"No - _God _no. You brought Dean back." He spoke in a rush, breathless, crying fresh tears. "That's not nothing. That's everything. I'm sorry - I would never _never_ say that's nothing. That's everything. That's everything I'll ever want, all wrapped up in one big pain in the ass."

He let out a long, shuddering breath and dropped back to the ground. He put his head in his hand.

"Never mind, I'll shut up. I don't even know - anything - anymore. Dean's safe. Nothing else matters. I just wish - I wish he didn't think I was a freak. I mean - even thinking I'm a freak, he always protected me. I was always his little brother. But I don't think I am anymore. He tries, I know he tries. But I think he finally just got tired of it. Of me. Of being disappointed in me. And I'm tired of trying to make something good out of being a freak."

He was quiet awhile, head in his hand, wiping at tears that still fell. His head hurt from where Jack had hit him, his jaw hurt where Dean had hit him, and a dark, miserable world seemed to be closing in on him and he didn't know how to stop it.

"I believe that you hear me, it's just getting harder to believe that you care."

Another breeze swirled around Sam, warm and gentle. He lifted his face and closed his eyes and rested his head back against the headstone.

"Are you all right?" A voice startled him; Sam wondered if he'd dozed off. A man crouched next to him. In the moonlight he could see the collar.

"Father - I'm sorry. I'm fine. I guess - I guess I lost track of the time."

"What are you doing out here? It's nearly eleven pm."

"I - uh - I was - _praying_."

"In the cemetery? The middle of a cemetery in the middle of the night isn't where most people choose to pray."

"Most everybody I love is dead." Sam said. "Cemeteries don't really bother me."

"Are they in here?"

"No, no. My mother's grave - and my grandparents - are in Kansas. My Dad we put to rest in South Dakota. And my fiancée is in California." Sam tried to keep the bitterness out of voice. Father had only asked a question; he wasn't the cause of the answer.

"So who's not dead?"

"What?"

"You said almost everybody you love is dead. That means someone you love isn't dead."

"My brother is alive." _And hates me, _Sam thought.

"And where is he now?"

_Probably back at the motel comparing notes with his angel what a total waste I am. What does he need me for? He's got his angel._

"We're just driving through town. He's at the motel. I needed to take a walk."

"And pray?"

"My brother isn't much of a believer. And I got things to say to God that he doesn't need to hear."

"Oh - one of _those_ prayers. An angry prayer." The priest sat on the ground too. "I've had those conversations with the Lord."

"You have?"

"Oh yes. Many times."

"Father? Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"Did you ever - did it ever seem like you pray, and you believe and you do your best, and all it seems like you get back from God is a busy signal? And people who don't pray and don't believe get an angel handed to 'em?"

"That's quite common actually. Most of the saints and I suppose _all_ of the great saints have gone through periods where they felt God had abandoned them. It's called 'dark night of the soul'."

"But why would God do that? Why would He treat people that way?"

"Sometimes He's testing them, sometimes He's trusting them. When you teach a child to ride a bike, eventually you have to let go."

"So you're saying that feeling like God is ignoring me is a _good_ thing? It sure doesn't feel like it."

"It didn't feel like it to the saints either."

"So what did they do?"

"They struggled with it. They kept believing, they kept praying. They kept fighting."

"Fighting?" Sam was surprised to hear the priest say that, Dean's admonition just before he died, '_keep fighting'_.

"Fighting the temptation to despair, to stop believing that God loved them just because they didn't feel it."

"What's wrong with wanting to feel it? Shouldn't you feel that God loves you?" Sam asked.

"Well, let me ask you - this brother you love. Do you always love him, no matter what?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Do you always _feel_ that love? Does he?"

Sam thought about the answer.

"No, I guess not."

"But it's always there, isn't it? You're brothers, you fight. But you still love each other, don't you? Even when you don't feel it?"

"Dean doesn't love me anymore."

"And why not?"

"He thinks I'm a freak."

"Why would he think that?"

"If I told you, you'd think I was crazy."

"Why don't you give me a try?"

Tired and cranky and wanting _somebody_ to talk to, Sam decided to go for it.

"There's a possibility I could turn evil." He waited for the stunned silent surprise. He didn't get it.

"There's a possibility everyone could turn evil."

"I - uh - I have a better than average chance."

"Oh really? Why do you say that?"

"I have something evil inside of me."

"We all do son. You're going to have to do better than that." The priest sounded amused.

"What do you have evil inside of you?" Sam asked, a little peeved.

"Original sin, free will, temptations, predilections, appetites, habits, addictions, obsessions, compulsions, wants, needs, grudges, anger, selfishness, physical frailty..."

"But Father, aren't those all things that could _become_ evil? They aren't evil themselves."

"We all have evil inside of us the way we all have goodness inside of us. It's what we choose to nurture that decides."

"But what if what you think is good really is evil?"

"God looks at our intentions more than our actions. Did you know what you were doing was evil?"

"I thought I was doing a good thing. I hope I would never do anything evil."

"But you aren't sure that you haven't."

"No. No I'm not sure." Sam said. Another nail in his coffin, he was sure of that. Father nodded.

"Good. If you said you had never ever done anything evil, I would've known you were lying. The fact that you're not sure is a good thing."

"Good that I might've done something evil?"

"Good that you doubt yourself, that you think about what you're doing, that you judge your actions or at least try to."

"I think I stopped trying for awhile." Sam thought about those months without Dean. "Stopped judging, just - just - didn't think about it at all."

"And what about now?"

"Well since my brother's been back, it's been kinda in my face every single day."

"So your brother wants to be your conscience?"

"He keeps trying." Sam leaned his head back and looked up at the stars again. "A giant-sized Jiminy Cricket with a baaaaad attitude."

"Is your brother much older than you?"

"Four years. Four and half. The way he acts though, you'd think..."

"What?"

"Our Mom died when I was a baby. Dad traveled a lot for work. Dean raised me pretty much. I mean, except for when I was at college, up to six months ago Dean was like my brother, my father, my teacher, my friend, my own personal pain in the ass. Um - oh - sorry Father."

"Well, as Robin Williams might say, at least you've used it in a sentence." Father sounded amused. "So what happened six months ago?"

"Dean went to hell." Sam told him. So far nothing had nonplused the priest; Sam wanted to see how far he could go telling the truth.

"In what way?"

"I - uh - I got into trouble." Sam chickened out telling the totally unvarnished truth. "Dean - to get me out of it - Dean - he traded himself for me. I should've died, he ought to have just let me die, but he traded himself for me. For four months I thought I'd never see him again. The things they did to him - he hasn't told me but I can imagine - the torture, the horror - I mean, I'll never be able to thank him for doing that for me. I mean - I know Dean. He doesn't want me to thank him. He doesn't need me to say the words, all he wants from me is -."

"To be that kid you were six months ago."

"Yeah. And that kid is gone. He died when Dean - fell off the face of the earth."

"That's not dying, that's growing up, and he's still learning how to deal with it. So - how did you get your brother back?"

"God. God had him pulled from hell and -."

"And?"

Sam felt tears fill his eyes.

"And the first thing he did was find me. I mean - he went to a friend's house first 'cause I fell off the map when he did and he had to find me. But he _found_ me."

"And this is the brother you think doesn't love you?"

"We've been fighting a lot. We've been - it's like we used to hold doors for each other, now we keep letting them slam in each other's faces and we're not even trying not to anymore."

"You lived knowing your brother was being tortured and you couldn't imagine it and you couldn't stop it. Your brother was tortured not knowing if you were still safe or if you were going to get into more trouble when he wasn't there to protect you. Both of you had no idea when or if you'd see each other again. Of course you're letting doors slam; I wouldn't be surprised if you were running into them headlong."

"Sure feels like I'm banging my head against them, that's for sure." Sam agreed. "I wish - I try to help Dean but he won't let me in."

"_Keep_ trying." Father said. "Trust me Sam, keep trying. Dean needs you and he loves you."

"I'm not so sure."

"Let me ask you - is your brother Dean tall, short hair, leather jacket, sour expression?"

"Yeah, that sounds exactly like Dean. How'd you know that?"

With his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Sam saw Father gesture over his shoulder.

"He's across the street, watching you. He's in the shadows, you can't see him from here, but he's been there at least twenty minutes now, keeping an eye on you I expect. Doesn't sound like someone who thinks you're a freak. Sounds to me like a brother who loves you."

"Dean? He's here?" Sam pushed himself up, looking across the street. "Really?"

Father stood up behind him.

"You might not hold doors for each other anymore, but you haven't started locking them either, have you? Just keep trying Sam. _Keep fighting,_ for each other."

Sam took a few steps toward the gate of the cemetery, then remembered his manners and turned back.

"Thanks for talking with me - Father?"

Only wind and moonlight shared the cemetery with Sam. He looked around a little, puzzled, then hurried across the street. He'd just made the curb when Dean stepped out from between two buildings.

"Y'okay?"

"I don't know. Yeah." Sam looked back to the church and the empty cemetery. "I don't know."

"What?" Dean asked. There was a subtle shift in his shoulders that Sam recognized as Dean going on alert.

"Nothing. I think. I was just - praying. How did he know my name?"

"Who?"

"I have no idea."

"How many conversations are we having here Sammy? I kinda like to keep track."

"I just - I thought - I don't know."

"Okaaaay. Uh - what d'you say we head back to the motel? It's late, and you're obviously very tired."

"Yeah, I guess I must be."

"Car's this way."

"Yeah." Sam followed Dean, staring at the cemetery. Father must've just walked fast back to the church is all. A pastor's work is never done, Pastor Jim used to say.

"Nice looking church, isn't it?" Dean asked. "Shame it's all boarded up."

The End?


End file.
